You Have Me You Have My Memories
by A Ginger
Summary: Some fluff between Castiel and Dean, which takes place amidst a snowstorm. Castiel plays the part of a part-time voyeur. Intensley fluffy, and may induce vomiting.


It was snowing, and the Winchester brothers were very excited about it.

Castiel wasn't sure what had inspired the joy, but there he stood, inside the motel watching out the window as the Winchesters tossed about in the heavy snow fall. He'd arrived at their motel nearly an hour ago, intending to give them the latest update on the whispering going on amongst the angels. So far, neither Sam nor Dean had even noticed that Castiel was there. For all they knew, their snowball fight out in the motel parking lot existed for no one else but the two of them. It was such a private, innocent moment that Castiel felt as if he shouldn't be watching. Yet, he couldn't leave.

It had been so long since Castiel saw happiness; he'd almost forgotten it could exist amidst so much terror and pain. The Apocalypse most certainly was nigh, which is exactly why he would let Dean and his brother enjoy their night without interruption.

Motel rooms being what they were – cramped space and thin walls – Castiel had no trouble hearing the laughter that came from both brothers. He watched, his own smile slowly growing, as Dean crouched behind the Impala with a snowball the size of a bowling ball. Dean waited for Sam to peek out from behind the other side of the car, and before the younger man could retreat, Dean brought the snow down on his brother's head. Sam's dark hair was turned white by the clumps and flakes. Not a moment was spared for Sam's retaliation, which came in the form of an even larger clump of snow that was dumped down the back of Dean's coat as he tried to run away. Castiel's grin grew into a full smile at Dean's outcry at the sudden drench of cold. The elder Winchester tackled his brother, shoving him face-first into a snow bank.

This was a scene from another life. Perhaps if the Winchesters had grown up normal, or at least grown up without the weight of the world on their shoulders, they could have had late-night snowball fights every winter. Over time, maybe their winters outside would have found the addition of wives and children. Castiel saw in the back of his mind this parallel life for both Sam and Dean; it warmed him and chilled him simultaneously. He was happy at the thought of what good men his new friends were, and how rich their lives could have otherwise been. Before he could become too carried away with his own imagination, he admitted to himself that his own idealist fantasy would never become true for either man. They were doomed to sacrifice, to loss and pain. Castiel let himself lean forward until his forehead hit the window. His sigh created a moment of fog on the glass.

Outside, both men were lying on their backs in the snow. The entire parking lot was sheeted in the stuff. The storm had begun nearly five hours prior, and there were no tire tracks or imperfections in the fine ocean of white – aside from the stirrings of the brothers' war, of course. Both Sam and Dean seemed to be out of breath as they lie back, and the plumes of breath that could be seen above them were heavy and thick. Their snowball fight was over, and now they both seemed content to rest.

Castiel could tell they were talking. He watched their breath thicken and wane as their mouths moved, but he couldn't hear what was said. Maybe that was for the best. Their conversation, like this entire night, belonged only to them, and Castiel knew he had no right to it. So long as he remained out of sight, he allowed himself to stay.

But he was curious. There were so many things the brothers could be saying. From the meaningful to the mundane, everything that crossed between them was important, if only because of its frailty. They all knew – Castiel included – that their lives were on a delicate balance. Each day might have been their last, and as Lucifer grew stronger, closer, that balance was tipping into flame and ash. Castiel felt himself stirring with emotions that perhaps only existed as a last effort. Like some creature that knew it was doomed, emotion and feeling was beginning to spring out of the angel before he lost all chance to experience anything at all. Yes, Castiel feared for his own life. He did not want to leave the fight before it was finished, but above all that he was concerned for the Winchesters. Without question, they were the important beings here, and they had all of the attention and care he could give – whether they were aware of it or not. He had prepared himself to die that they may live.

After some time, Sam and Dean fell silent. There were no stars to be seen, but maybe that wasn't what they were looking at. Their thoughts were no doubt as turbulent as Castiel's. As he watched them, the angel felt the sudden desire to fall down beside them in the snow so that they could stare at the empty sky together.

Although the light was poor, Castiel could vaguely see that Sam's eyes were closed. He most likely wasn't asleep, only basking in the simplicity of lying in the snow with his brother. Dean craned his head away from where Castiel stood and looked at the man. After a moment or two, Dean sat up, shaking snow from his hair. A thick burst of breath came from the older man, and he shrugged his shoulders slightly as he sighed. Castiel watched him, fascinated by the complete relaxation that Dean appeared to be enjoying.

Then, Dean looked at him.

In fact, Dean hadn't looked at him with any idea that he would _see_ Castiel standing inside the motel room, and indeed the sight seemed to shock him. For a moment, Dean appeared alarmed, like Castiel was some threat that had intruded on them. But once he was on his feet and two steps closer to the window, he recognized the angel for who he was. Sam was sitting up in the snow, apparently asking Dean what was going on.

Dean remained standing several feet away, and neither he nor Castiel looked away from each other. Castiel was embarrassed at being caught, but now that he was discovered, he knew that running would only look worse.

Miraculously, Dean raised one hand, and gestured for Castiel to join them. There was a grin on the man's face, and it brought a warm wave of emotions through the angel's middle. With a mere flexing of his powers, Castiel appeared outside in the snow, standing just in front of Dean.

"I apologize for intruding," Castiel said, his voice soft but deep as it always was.

Dean shook his head. "Nah, we were just messing around out here." He gave a light chuckle, like he suddenly felt stupid about playing in the snow. "Everything okay?"

Castiel nodded, not wanting Dean's night of frolic to be ruined with needless worry. "Yes. I only came to make sure that the two of you are faring well. Since you appear to be fine, I'll be going."

"You don't have to do that," Dean said, sounding almost earnest. There was a light behind his eyes, a light that came with being contentedly happy, if only for a little while. Castiel's heart ached to see the way Dean would glow if allowed to live without so much darkness pressing in from all sides. "Why not just hang out here with us for a while?"

"Actually," Sam said, appearing at Dean's side, "I'm freezing." He grinned, nodding to Cas. "I think I'm gonna go inside and take a shower."

Dean looked disappointed, but he nodded regardless. Sam went past them and stepped inside the motel room.

"I'll, uh, I'll stay out here with you a while," Castiel said. "If you'd like. I love the snow, and it's been a while since I could enjoy it."

Dean's smile relighted. It was a rarity to see the man so youthful. Although he was by no means old, his lot in life crippled his otherwise bright personality. As of late, he'd been particularly bogged down by the stress of being Michael's intended vessel.

Without another word, Dean fell backward, unhindered and inevitably caught by a large mound of snow. Castiel allowed himself a chuckle as he fell beside the man, his head a mere half-foot away. For some time they laid still and silent while snow continued to fall around them. Castiel felt the flakes land with pin-prick frigidity on his face and hands. The feeling of his clothes being steadily soaked-through was wonderful. He never thought he could take so much joy in something so human as lying on the ground amidst a snowstorm.

"Me and Sammy used to have snowball fights all the time when we were kids," Dean said after what could have been ten minutes or two hours. "Usually they started by accident. I'd flick snow off of my jacket as I got out of the car, and of course it'd hit Sam in the face. I'll never forget the time Dad came up behind us and dropped these two snowballs the size of friggin' cantaloupes down the back of our coats. We chased him all around the house we'd rented until we were soaked to the bone."

Castiel smiled at the image. "That is a nice memory."

Dean gave a wry chuckle. "Yeah. Got more bad ones than good ones, though."

"Good memories count for double the points. So, maybe when you look at it that way, the good outweighs the bad?" Castiel looked over that the man. Both of them were grinning, cheeks red against the cold.

"You think?" Dean said, sounding amused.

Castiel nodded firmly. "Definitely."

While they stared at each other, both men began to laugh. Dean's laughter was more assured than Castiel's, who rarely even chuckled, but it was a nice sound all the same.

"Man," Dean said, sighing. He put one hand to his chest, chuckling again. "Maybe you're right, though. Maybe the good at least equals the bad."

"I hope so." Castiel raised his eyes once again to Dean's, noticing how vibrantly green they appeared amidst all the white.

"Hmm," Dean hummed, like a sigh. He was quiet for a moment, then said, "What about you, Cas? You got any good memories?"

The angel was slightly taken aback by the question. Mostly because he wasn't sure he could answer. His stories of Heaven didn't belong in this sort of conversation; Dean wouldn't understand that type of cosmic good. After a moment of thought, he said, "My memories are old, Dean. Most cannot be categorized, much less into good or bad. But I do have happy memories, ones that I can look back on in times of desperation. If that is the definition of good, then yes, I have good memories." Castiel turned his gaze to the sky, trying to find one star amongst the clouds. There was some inane comfort in the illusion that he and Dean were at the moment hidden from the heavens' view. "But," he continued, "I will admit that some of my most treasured memories have occurred within the past several months. I know that our circumstances are grim, at best. But, hm, I don't know. It's as if I've been more alive in my time with you, despite my being the closest to death that I've ever come."

Having said those words, Castiel felt the ardent desire to snatch them back. Damn these new human emotions of his; they were only going to get him laughed at! Slowly, Castiel looked to Dean, expecting to see a smirk on the hunter's face.

There was indeed a smile on Dean's face, but it was soft, warm. There was not the slightest hint of cruel mockery anywhere in that smile.

"Cas," Dean said, breathing the angel's name on the end of a sigh. He caught himself in the melancholy tone and cleared his throat slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was slightly rough, but by no means harsh. "You mean that?"

Castiel found himself nodding. "The day I pulled you from Hell, Dean, that is the day my best memories began."

Warmth would be that last thing that one would expect to find in the middle of a snowstorm, much less a snowstorm taking place in a world on its way into a nose-dive toward doom. However, there was a soft heat working its way through Castiel's body, and there would be no way for Dean to deny that he felt it too. The two men forgot everything except the last words out of the angel's mouth and the implications there in.

Dean moved a fraction closer to Castiel, as if drawn in by the intensity in their shared gaze. A hand lifted, going to the angel's face. Dean's thumb ran timidly across Castiel's cheek which the rest of his hand cupped around to the back of his neck. Shivers tip-toed up Castiel's spine, joining into one trembling mass at the precise location of Dean's touch.

"Dean—"

The hunter shook his head once. "D-don't say anything. Ju-just let me…"

No objection was given, not even when Dean brought himself up, propped on one elbow, above Castiel. Their eyes searched for answers in the other's, but none could be found. It wasn't until Dean brought his lips down onto Castiel's that anything in the whole world started to make sense.

This was a scene from another life; ensnared by Dean's touch beneath a shower of falling snow, sharing a kiss that both men knew was the first of many to come. This moment was far too perfect to belong to them, and yet it did. Neither of them pulled away to question or doubt, not when it was far better to remain entwined and do nothing but feel. There was honesty, enough of it to melt the ice around them. Dean's hand remained strong at the back of Castiel's neck, but the angel wouldn't have tried to escape if it meant the world.

For both man and angel, the world did not extend into Heaven or Hell. The world did not stretch beyond what they could feel. All they knew or cared to know in that exact moment was the warmth spreading between them, and the snow that had brought them together.


End file.
